How To Eat A HomeCooked Meal
by Cinnamin-chan
Summary: Is it so bad to want to do things the oldfashioned way? Oneshot.


**Author's Note:** This is my first Star Trek fanfic, or at least the first one I've actually finished. It was written late at night (well, early morning, technically), so if it sounds weird, I'm sorry! I did spell-check it, though. It's not exactly slash unless you want it to be; I just thought I should write something short, simple, and sweet, and I hope I achieved that. I mean, who doesn't like a little banter between our favorite doctor and our favorite green-blooded alien? Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated!

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, the characters, the actors, or any of that other stuff. Thought I wish I did. :)

**

* * *

**

**How To Eat A Home-Cooked Meal**

"What are you doing, Doctor?"

McCoy turned around to see his favorite green-blooded alien staring at him curiously, hands clasped behind his back. _Damn him for always looking so business-like, even during shore leave_, thought McCoy.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he replied irritably. "I'm cooking."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Cooking? Why not use the food replicator? It is quite efficient and less time consuming."

"Because I'd rather cook," said McCoy through gritted teeth. "Now, stop asking questions and go away. You'll make me burn the bacon!"

"How illogical. And quite rude," muttered Spock. "There is nothing to gain from this process, along with the possibility of spoiling the meal. Besides, meat is unhealthy, especially when prepared in a manner such as that. The oils and grease -"

"Look, I don't care, just leave me alone and let me cook in peace!" he snarled, gripping the handle of the frying pan tightly. "What I eat and how I make it is my business! No-good, green-blooded, elf-eared vegetarian..."

McCoy stood there, watching the bacon simmer for a few more minutes before he realized that the Vulcan was also still standing there, watching him. He tried his best to ignore him, and started to prepare some scrambled eggs. He felt Spock's eyes follow his hand movements as he delicately cracked two eggs and poured the yolks into the pan. He started whistling a little tune to take his mind off the nosy science officer, but after a few more minutes of preparing his breakfast, McCoy could no longer handle being observed like a strange specimen.

"Okay, is there something you want? Cause you're really starting to tick me off. In fact, I'm _already_ ticked off."

"I desire nothing, Doctor. I was merely observing your activities with great interest. Tell me, since you apparently know the drawbacks of such a process, why then, do you persist? Is it some sort of human trait that I have not yet encountered?"

"Perhaps it is," remarked McCoy hotly. "Though I see nothing unusual about a guy who wants to make his own food. Is it so bad to want to do things the old-fashioned way?"

"I suppose not. But what is your reason?"

McCoy paused. Spock really did take a lot of human things for granted. "Because I _like_ to cook. I like to make things for myself. And it reminds me of things..."

"What sort of things?" asked the ever-questioning officer.

"Things you wouldn't understand..." Absent-mindedly sprinkling salt on the eggs, McCoy continued, "Things like... like home. Whenever I cook, it reminds me of when my mother cooked for me when I was a kid. We would sit at the table in the dining room, and while we waited for her to finish cooking, my father and I would talk to each other about stuff, like school, news, you know. We would be able to smell the food coming from the kitchen, but before we could complain about how long it was taking, she'd bring out the food, perfectly made and absolutely delicious. Her food was the best I ever tasted. Nowadays, all you gotta do to get food is push a button and say what you want, but back then... back in Georgia... it was different. Sure, you get your food faster now, but it tasted so much better when she made it, 'cause she put all her heart and soul into it. She'd say, 'I want you to grow big and strong, so eat up,' and I'd happily oblige. Those were the days..." He paused when he noticed that Spock was staring more intently than ever.

"Go on," he said quietly.

"That's all; cooking reminds me of home, of my family. I don't know if it's the smell or the taste, but eating like this just really comforts me..." McCoy saw Spock raise his eyebrow again, so he said, "Yeah, I know this doesn't make sense to a thick-headed Vulcan like you, nor does it probably interest you, so I'll just shut up and keep my nice happy memories to myself."

"Quite the contrary, Doctor. I find it highly fascinating. The stimuli from the foods you prepare cause an emotional reaction connected to memories of your life many years ago. It seems I still have a large number of things to research in order to understand the human mind."

"See, there you go, spouting out all that scientific nonsense," barked McCoy, carefully scraping the eggs from the pan and onto his plate. "You always make somethin' simple sound like a damned experiment."

Spock paused for a moment, pondering the doctor's words. "It is truly that simple?"

"Of course it-" began McCoy, but he stopped to think, too - was it really that simple? Feelings, emotions, memories... they were both simple and complicated. How was that possible? "Alright, now you're just givin' me a headache. I'm a doctor, not a philosopher... Either go away, or shut up and eat." He put the plate of eggs on the table, then retrieved the bacon and placed it next to the eggs.

"Doctor, I must remind you that I am a vegetarian, and therefore, I do not consume meat."

"I know that, you idiot, but you can eat eggs, can't you?"

"Correct."

McCoy shoved a plate in his direction. "Then shut up and eat!"

Spock had a look on his face that almost resembled pouting, but he refrained from saying anything else and instead took a bite of egg. The two sat there in silence for a few minutes, the only sound in the room being made by the soft clinking of silverware on plates and the slow chewing of the food.

Spock finished his meal rather quickly, and, surprisingly, ate all of it. _I didn't give him much, but usually he just pecks at his food like a damn bird or something_, thought McCoy. But when Spock stood up to leave, McCoy found himself stopping the Vulcan.

"Wait..."

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Don't leave yet."

"Why not, Doctor?"

"Because..."

"Because why, Doc-"

"I don't _know _why, I just did! Quit asking questions and just sit back down!" he barked.

"Surely you had some reason for delaying me."

Why _had_ he stopped Spock? It's not like they enjoyed each other's company; their constant arguing was proof of that. But for some reason, so much like the smell of the food, the presence of the Vulcan comforted him. It felt right to be sitting there, sharing a meal with him as if they were old friends. In a way, they were friends. They respected each other's talents and abilities, despite their fighting and disagreements. He even felt that he trusted the man, and a part of him seemed determined to expose Spock's human side. However, he'd be damned if he would say that out loud, so instead he made up a somewhat lame excuse.

"Alright. You want a reason, here it is: you've got to eat more than that. You've gotta keep up your strength, and look at you! You're so damn skinny, I don't know how you're so strong."

"Looks can be deceiving, Doctor. I can assure you that I have received enough nourishment to fulfill my daily needs."

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, I'm the doctor here, and I say you need to eat more. Here, eat some toast."

Spock looked like he was about to smile, or maybe even laugh, but he restrained himself. "You humans are so... illogical," he managed to remark.

The doctor smirked. "Damn right we are. And proud of it. Now, keep eating. You haven't lived 'til you've tasted my home-made jam."

* * *

What did you think? Was it good? Bad? Totally bad? Kind of good? Let me know: feedback is a writer's best friend! 


End file.
